Fascist Italy And His Sorella
by Inuyashagirl7692
Summary: A young North Italy runs into a world meeting, surprising everyone, but what happens next is ever stranger. Story includes Chibitalia and 2P!Italy, who isn't as violent or as psychotic in this story as he normally is. Or at least, he isn't yet
1. Unexpected Circumstances

Germany looked up at the clock with increasing worry. Italy was late, not just a little late, but really late. The country with the largest eyebrows, and the darkest bruises from the war, with the possible exception of France, looked anxious to begin the meeting, and the five minutes Germany had asked for were up. This meant Germany would have to speak to the Allies alone, since Japan was absent, Prussia wasn't a nation (he would probably only poke the fire anyway), and Italy was-

"Ve~, I made it!"

Italy was here! No… wait just a- Germany spun around to find a very short brunette in a green dress and bonnet, cheering her arrival, and jumping up and down like the little kid she was. Or at least, he thought it was a girl. She sounded just like Italy, but nations didn't regress into childlike forms. An image formed in his mind, that of a young child who looked exactly like that one, but when he tried to cling to it, it vanished.

Austria jumped out of his seat. "ITALY!" Hungary noticed the child, jumped up, and screamed as well.

Happy with the attention, the child (she was a girl, right?) smiled, "Ve~ That's me."

A few seconds passed where no one uttered a sound, followed by a collective jaw dropping, which was then closely followed by an earsplitting, "EEEEEHHHH?!"

Footsteps approaching the meeting room portended the arrival of an even bigger shock.

"Oi, Chibi, we're going to have to go over what the phrase 'don't wander off' means when we get home." Into the room stepped a fully-grown Italy, with a black cap on his head, a tan uniform on his person, and long black combat boots. He held his back straight, the way a soldier would, as he surveyed the room of nations with a wary eye.

"Fratello! You made it!" The child rushed to greet him, tripped over its dress, got up, brushed herself off, and tried again.

"Of course, I did. I was right behind you. Heck, I'm the one who brought you here." His voice softened considerably when he noticed the amber orbs begin to quiver. A small smile fought for control of his mouth, and won. Ruffling her hair affectionately, he said, "I'm not mad at you, dummy." He glared up at the nations as if daring them to say something. "Go on, sit down, I'll be there in a minute."

The young Italian nodded and rushed off to sit by Germany.

England spoke up, "Um, Italy, do you care to explain-"

"NOT NEXT TO HIM!" Confused, the young Italian in the green dress climbed out of the seat she had been trying to hoist herself into. "And you-" The air around the older brother seemed to darken as he marched towards the German nation. "Touch Chibi, and you won't live to eat another potato, Potato Freak!"

Several nations let out a breath they hadn't known they'd been holding. So, he doesn't like Germany? It must be Romano, Italy's older brother. That still left the question of who the child was, but at least they didn't have to deal with two belligerent Italian nations.

The child ran over to Romano, pounded his/her little fists on Romano's pant leg, and said, "Ve~ fratello, stop being mean." The older boy looked down with a flat expression, grabbed the child's leg, and gently hoisted her up into the air. A furious flush painted the child's face once the dress fell around her torso, revealing her undergarments, but the strong arm holding her didn't drop her no matter how much she struggled.

"Oi" Germany said. "The kid's going to pass out if you do that."

England tried to start again, "So, Romano, is that Italy?"

"Ve~, Romano? Where?" The little Italian looked around as though expecting her other fratello to pop out of a wall.

"Eh, the one holding you right now, the one with the hat, that's your fratello, right Italy?"

"Yes, fratello Feli is my precious fratello."

England's blood boils faster than water.

"Who are you?!" America glanced at England, warning him with his eyes not to upset the kid by screaming at it.

"I'm me!" The child cried out, delighted. "England's so funny when he's angry."

Her brother sighed. "Oi, Eyebrows, when do we get to sit down?"

"You and the kid in the dress can sit in the seat next to Germany just like you always do – AND DON'T CALL ME EYEBROWS!" The child squealed happily as the boy swung her back and forth, both completely ignoring England. "Don't ignore me!"

America glanced at the two Italians and sighed. Clearly, yelling at them wasn't going to work, and Italy was dead set on not sitting next to Germany. For his part, Germany was sitting, heartbroken, in his chair, wishing he'd never even gone to the meeting.

"Italy?" America asked.

The boy in the cap gave him an evaluating look. America hated that look, because it usually meant someone was doing his or her best not to underestimate him. What was the point in being smart sometimes if his opponents expected it? But Italy wasn't an opponent. He'd just signed an armistice with the allies, and the other day, he'd even seemed to be contemplating joining them. So then, what was with this new Italy?

Finally, the boy nodded, and said, "I'm Fascist Italy, loyal to Mussolini, puppet of Hitler, and this is my sorella-" A gasp, a manly Austrian gasp, was heard in the back of the room. "North Italy… You can close your mouths anytime now."

The young nation complied, but felt compelled to ask, "Are you sure she's a girl? It's just that people have mistaken Italy for a girl before. There's nothing to be ashamed of if you have."

Little Italy puffed out her red cheeks. "Of course, I'm a girl. When Fratello Feli let's me down, I'll take off my clothes and show-"

Feliciano cut her off with a slightly higher voice, "You will do no such thing!"

"Why not?"

"Because I'm currently in control of your nation, and I say no!"

"I'm my own nation! You can't tell me what to do!" Small blushes lit up England and America's faces when they heard this. They sneaked a glance at each other, noticed the other one looking at them, and quickly turned away.

She was about to kick him. Italy knew, remembered, that his sorella had insane strength and could probably kick his ass if she wanted to, then he'd let her go, and she'd do whatever the hell she wanted in a room full of guys, and France!

Finally, he blew up at her, "Why can't you just let me protect you?!" Chibi stopped squirming, amber eyes widening under her brown mop of hair. He put her on the ground, gently, and knelt so he could be a her level. Voice breaking, he continued, "I've only just found you. I've only just gotten to know you, don't make me lose anyone else that I lo-." The words were so thick and hard to say in front of so many eyes. He thought he was going to choke if he didn't say them, but he might just die if he did.

"He he, fratello is silly like fratello Romano." She wrapped her small arms around his face in a loving embrace, and he, almost disbelieving that something so special and warm could possibly be in his life, touched her small arms, and buried his head into her shoulder.

Even though he had all the memories, feelings didn't come with them. The memories were cold, like something he'd learned from a textbook. The only warmth he'd ever known was his sorella. That's why he'd protect her… even if it meant destroying his boss.

The room was silent, except for the squeak of a chair being pushed back. As America stood up, England hissed, "What are you doing, Alfred?"

"I'm going to sit next to Germany. Those two can have my seat." With a careless smile, he added, "Besides, we'll never get our meeting started if everyone keeps on turning to stare at those two."

He knelt to ruffle Chibi's hair as he paused, and she giggled appreciatively. Italy didn't want to owe the Burger King anything, but, for this, he was grateful. Thus, when America stood up again, Italy lifted his head, blushed furiously, turned his head to the side, and said, "Thank you."

"Heh, don't mention it. I'm a hero, after all."

It seemed the hero nonsense wasn't quite so bad when he was actually acting like a hero. Scooping the girl into his arms, Italy stood and carried her over to the head of the table. She didn't complain about sitting on his lap, or about their distance from Germany, and for this… he could have jumped for joy. At the moment, the German seemed to be looking rather depressed, Prussia seemed amused, and Russia… was smiling creepily.

Note to self: Keep Sorella away from Russia at all costs

America stood up and started to give his report. Apparently, the Allies were currently occupying South Italy. Romano must be thrilled. Italy almost wished to see his brother just so he could see him freak out at America's men, maybe even England's. How embarrassed he must be, occupied by his sworn enemy and the Burger King. Although, it was still better than Mussolini. Stupid git couldn't take a hint. When a people exiles you, that does not mean come on back and try to rule them again. With any luck, he'd be murdered someday.

"Ne, can I sit on the table?" Chibi whispered, as she fixed him with her hopeful eyes, but he withstood temptation and declined.

Another soft whisper ticked his ear like a feather,"Ne, Fratello, I'm tired."

"Then go to sleep."

"I'm hungry."

"Sorry, Chibi, but America's speaking right now, and-" A violent cough broke him off. She was doubled over, her face contorted in pain, and in his very short life, he'd never felt this helpless. "Chibi? Oi, Chibi! Are you alright?" After a few agonizing seconds, Italy removed her small, trembling hands from her mouth, and saw red all over her hands. She tried to give him a weak smile, but her legs buckled, and she fell against his chest, sobbing.

"They're dying, fratello." She cried.

"Who? Who is?"

"My people. The soldiers."

"Chibi! You have to tell me, please. Who's killing them?"

Another violent cough wracked her small body, but she wouldn't answer. She didn't have to. Italy could see the answer written all over Germany's face.


	2. Saving Sorella

Before anyone else could react, Italy had placed his sister down on his chair, lunged across the table, and placed a knife at the bottom end of Germany's Adam's apple. The blond gulped when confronted with a face that seemed to be permanently contorted into a rigor of unfathomable rage.

"Call your dogs off or I'll stick you like a pig" Italy growled, pressing the edge of the knife deeper into the German's throat for emphasis. A single bead of blood ran like a rivulet from the knife's edge as he spoke.

Struggling to breath, Germany replied, "You know I can't."

Hands of many different shades tore at Italy's uniform as he struggled to retain his hold on the German's thick throat. As he fought to tear them off, his sorella began to gasp, a deep, rattling gasp that sucked the color from her pinched cheeks, glazed her eyes, and left her quivering like a wounded dog. Even as the fever raged inside her, she feared for Germany's life. She wanted her brother to stop hurting him, because even if no one else could see it, she could see that he was crying. But then, so was her Fratello.

After what felt like hours, the allies managed to tear Italy away from his former comrade, though it was manly due to America's immense military and economical strength. The others were weakened thanks to the war's toll on their economies and populations, so Italy was only truly moved once America decided to move him, however reluctantly he may have chosen to do so.

The Russian nation never even got up from his chair, only smiling pleasantly as the ruckus continued to unfold before his eyes.

Prussia shot America a grateful look, but the young nation couldn't quite to reciprocate it with his customary grin. They were, after all, at war.

Ripping away from the arms that held him, Italy strode towards the door as his young sorella desperately, blindly tried to totter after him.

"I'm going to kill Mussolini." He yelled, gripping his hands at his sides. "Do any of you have a problem with that?" His gaze swept around the room as though he were daring them to object.

England blustered.

America objected (so did Canada, but no one heard him), "What are you talking about. Italy? If you do that, you'll die."

"I can bring him down in one-" The Italian shook his head. "Two years tops. I don't care what happens to me."

Concern and desperation tinged America's voice as he replied, "But we were just beginning to become friends!"

"Fratello, don't go." These words broke the red haze that had swallowed up Italy's vision. Down, grabbing at his pant's leg, was his sister, sick, shaking, and looking up at him an unwavering, pleading gaze that broke his heart and filled him with a soul crushing guilt. If he didn't go, she would die. He would lose the only sister he'd ever had. That could not be allowed to happen, no matter the consequences. But…

"I'll come back." He heard himself say. There was a smile on his face that was meant to be reassuring, but it felt too strange, so he knew he'd gotten it wrong. "I swear I will." It was a lie meant to sooth her, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. She crumbled in on herself, sobbing brokenly at his feet.

That's when it hit him that she was probably remembering what Holy Rome had said to them before he left. He'd said he'd be back. Instead of trying to rectify his words, Italy down beside his little sorella and held her in arms. There she cried into his shoulder, the soft weeping of a child.

Behind her, stood Hungary, with tears in her eyes. He looked up and said, "Will you take care of her for me?"

Not trusting herself to speak, Hungary could only nod.

There wasn't anytime left. The Acqui Division was being slaughtered, Italian partisans were being hanged in the streets, they needed his help, and he would give him his help, because his sorella couldn't live without them. Gently, he patted her head, even after another rattling cough sent blood spraying over his uniform; he never stopped patting her until he truly was ready to leave.

In the back, France, England, and America spoke about the wisdom of trusting him, but he didn't care the slightest bit about them or what they thought, so he ignored them.

Finally, he picked up the squirming, panting child and handed her over to Hungary. The girl did her best to comfort Chibi, as she screamed, "No, Fratello. Don't go!"

He lingered at the doorway, his hand on the molding, then, with a small smile and a salute, he was gone.

With the departure of her fratelleo, the House of Savoy, and the chiefs of staff, North Italy was all alone. The little girl curled her head into the woman who held her, as thoughts of her brothers and Holy Rome flashed through her mind, crying, "Ne, Miss Hungary, why does everyone leave me behind?"

* * *

"That was pretty intense, huh, West?" Germany's brother was one of the only nations who still spoke to him. It may have been out of loyalty or it may have been out of love, either way, Germany was glad there was someone still talking to him. An inquisitive eyebrow was all Prussia caught in reply, so he clarified for appearances sake, even though there was no one else was in the hallway with them. All the other nations had already left the Conference Building, heading back to their respective war torn populations. "I meant that thing with Italy."

Immediately, the German paled until he was almost as waxen as his brother. "Italy is an enemy now. What he does is none of our concern."

"We could join the Italian resistance too, West. We don't have to be enemies." Blue eyes widened until they looked like two plate's on Germany's head.

He seized his brother, pushed him up against the wall, and growled, "What you are speaking is treason, bruder."

"Pardon my language," Prussia choked out. "But that's bullshit, _sir_." He spat on the ground. "My loyalty lies with you. I'll go where you go, but don't expect me to lick Hitler's boots the way you-"

A punch to the face silenced him.

When Prussia awoke thirty minutes later, there was no one in the hallway.

"Ha ha, losers, I'm not crying," he said to the empty air. Not even bothering to rise from his slumped position, his slightly not-glassy eyes glanced back towards the Conference room.

_"Ne, Miss Hungary," The child sobbed, "why does everyone leave me behind?" Then, almost on cue, the door burst open, revealing Fascist Italy. He strode across the room, plucked his sorella out of Hungary's arms, raised her above his head and said, "Don't be so sad, idiota. I'm not leaving you. We're both Italy, aren't we? We'll always be together." The unspoken 'no matter what happens to me' was heard by everyone except his sister, who beamed brightly through her tears at his words._

Back in the present, Prussia rubbed his jaw gingerly, cursed, struggled to his feet, and, with one last, lingering glance at the room where all the nations used to bicker and laugh together, moved to follow his brother.

**End of Part 1**

* * *

It was 1943 when the Italian Acqui Divsion found themselves abandoned by their king and leaders. They held the decision to surrender or fight to a vote.

They chose to fight.

They fought valiantly against the German military force that pervaded their beautiful land. With inferior numbers and arms, the attempt led only to bloodshed and one of the largest military massacres of Italian men, one felt even by the nation itself. Five-thousand prisoners of war were shot and drowned on the shores on Greece, where they had been placed so they could not interfere with Mussolini's rule.

For trying to defend their families, their children, their siblings… their Italy, they were executed without mercy. But that's war… isn't it?

Fascist Italy joined the Italian Resistance immediately after the Acqui Massacre.

The nearest northern resistance encampment was in Milan. From a plane the land would look almost empty, because all the tents of the encampment were colored to match the sand they were built upon, and because the people there who walked around, covered in Earth colors, wore only one thing that stood out against the tawny ground, and that was the black guns strapped to their backs. Thousands of prisoners of war had been rescued by Italian resistance members across the nation, but the day they met Feliciano Vargas, former member of the Fascist party, was a day the camp was receiving food for Italian Jews who were being sentenced to starve in their own homes.

"I want to join your group." The boy had said without flinching, despite the gun that Carlino held steady on his forehead.

Carlino remembered snarling," And what makes you think we want you here, Fascist pig?" It wasn't an actual statement, more like an initiation ceremony. It was Carlino's job as the strongest, tallest, and most intimidating at the camp to bully the potential recruits. If they turned out to be cowards, they weren't wanted. And if the interrogation revealed a ruse, it was up to Carlino to knock the Fascist traitor out and then drop him into the middle of nowhere. It would be easier to just shoot them but he refused to lower himself like that, and there was another reason in particular he didn't want to shoot this particular fascist.

There was a faded red scarf that he wore to protect his face from the dusty wind, and a worn blue vest that he wore to protect his muscular chest from the girls in the camp who wanted to- Well, what they wanted to do to him wasn't important. And he tried to tell them that everyday.

Still, the clothes they made and information they gathered was imperative to the resistance force's efforts.

Instead of answering the question the way Carlino was used to, pleading and supplications, the boy in the Fascist uniform, with his red tinged brown eyes, smiled, an unsettling sight, and said, "I don't think you want me. I think you need me."

"What?"

"With the Germans cracking down on the resistance, you need someone on the inside. I have the uniform and the knowledge. I can pass for a Fascist pig, as you so aptly called me, because I am one. But I want something in return." And there it was.

"What do you want?" Carlino asked. "Money?" It was a trick question.

"No, not that. If anyone so much as sees an opportunity to get Mussolini alone, I want to be the one to kill him. As long as he's alive, Fascist Italy will never die, and North Italy will still be in danger. He's like a disease that someone needs to cure. I want you to promise me that if the opportunity arises, if you see him, if you catch him, if you so much as catch a whiff of him, you will let me kill him."

The Italian resistance fighter smiled, though there was a touch of sadness in it, "Sounds like a deal." They shook hands, sizing each other up as they did. "So, what's with this grudge you got going on? Why did he do to you?"

Answering simply, the boy in the Fascist uniform replied, as though it were the obvious thing in the world, "He hurt our sorella."

"_Our sorella?!"_

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews. If you have any questions so far, I'd be happy to answer them. Constructive criticism is also welcome. I'd tell you who Carlino is, but you guys probably already know, right? **

**Hint: He's Seborga**


	3. Saving Prisoners

A bird trilled above Italy's head as he made his way towards the German POW camp. Apparently, there were three guys of national importance he needed to release, and he needed to have them released by the German officials without being caught, killed, maimed, or anything else that might impede his ability to bring the three prisoners. According to Carlino's Intel, he was looking for a Frenchman, and an Englishman, and an American.

If those prisoners were who he suspected they were, and he really hoped they weren't, it'd be getting them all out without having them start a fight or blowing his cover that would be the hardest part, not, say, avoiding bullets.

The camp's security consisted of eight snipers, a perimeter of barbed wire, and one sentry who stood watch at the gate. It was up to him to catch the frauds and the grieving friends and family members who yearned to take back their loved ones. Rumors in the Italian resistance whispered about women in these prisons who were thrown to German soldiers like so much bloodied meat to a hungry dog. This was a fate that often awaited the women who spoke who acted against the wishes of the Fascist government.

The Occupation demanded food from the Italians, often more than they could spare, which was why another major part of the resistance consisted of stealing and distributing food. If Italy's uniform and military mien weren't explicitly needed for this situation, and if his little brother, Carlino, hadn't pleaded with him, he'd be out trying to steal food for the plantations and refugees right now.

Still, not everything about this assignment was terrible. With any luck, he'd get to kill people this time. It'd been at least a year since he'd so much as drawn his blades on a breathing target, and he was starting to feel a little rusty in that department.

The sentry gave Italy a calculative glance, which was natural, considering the dry, stiffness of the nation's uniform and his dark tan. Both suggested he was outside often without proper supplies or shelter.

Instead of fidgeting, Italy gave the sentry an impatient snort, "My name is Felicano Vargas. I'm here as a representative of the Fascist Party. My superiors have ordered me to collect three prisoners- an American, a Frenchman, and an Englishman."

The sentry flipped through the papers on his desk. "We have received no prior notice of a prisoner transfer."

"This is your notice. The Fascist Party wishes to use these three prisoners as collateral against their respective nations. You could call my superiors to confirm the transfer, though I doubt they'd appreciate you wasting their time. I certainly don't appreciate you wasting mine. In fact, before I leave, be sure to give me your name, rank, and the name and rank of your closest superior."

Blanching, the sentry replied, "I don't believe that will be necessary, Sir." They saluted each other as Italy walked cooly past the gate. When he was entirely free of the sentry, the Italian nation allowed himself the small, smug smile he'd been suppressing. Really, that had just been too easy.

Haggard men in tattered rags dragged their hands and feet as their German wardens yelled abuse and practiced it. The hungry eyes and welts were enough to make anyone's blood boil, but Italy kept his face blank. A new diary had more to say than the expression on his face did to anyone who laid eyes on it. Still, the German soldiers guarding the cells glanced at him with curiosity and wariness until he flashed his identification. Technically, he was listed as a deserter, but they wouldn't find that out until he was well on his way with three prisoners and a dinner to look forward to.

They moved aside, revealing gray cells to match the gray skin of their prisoners, gray soil on the ground, gray gate at their perimeter, and gray corpses and bones at the foot of their hill.

A sense of relief seemed to come over any soldier who heard that the American, Frenchman, and Englishman were being transferred. This was because, no matter how much they were beaten, they were never obedient and they never shut up. This became blindingly clear once Italy came within fifteen feet of their cells.

A high voice with an English accent was shouting, "Well, at least my women know what a shower is!"

"That's a vicious lie and you know it!" came the disgruntled reply of a Frenchman. "There's no way your women know what a shower is."

"Oh, God" One of the German guards outside groaned. "Just take them already." At this, the two nations looked up to see Italy standing a few feet back in the shadows. Their eyes showed recognition, but their mouths said nothing. The silence itself was suspicious, but the guards didn't seem to notice anything amiss, so there wasn't really a need for them to start arguing again.

Dark circles around their eyes and dark bruises on their skin shone in the dim lighting. Whatever argument they'd been having, it's purpose had likely been to keep their spirits up. To keep them unbroken.

Moving on to the next cell, Italy saw something that shocked him so much he couldn't help but growl a little. America was beaten to a much more extreme extent than the other two. It was possible he'd spoken and fought in order to keep most of the negative attention to himself.

That seemed very like him.

What was unusual about the scene was the woman, bound and gagged, in his cell. She was no older than nineteen. Long, chestnut tresses ran down her exposed back, terrified honey colored eyes trembled, she was skin and bones and fear in a tattered brown dress.

Seeing his expression, America whispered, "They wanted me to rape her, Italy. I refused, they beat me, and then they tried to get me to rape her again. Rinse and repeat. What I'm saying is- Get us out of here."

It was impossible. He'd already said he'd be taking three prisoners out. There was no way- Without thinking, he found himself unlocking the cell so he could undo the binds around her hands and feet.

Shushing her as he spoke, he uttered assurances in Italian that he was not going to harm, he was going to undo the dirty gag around her mouth, as long as she didn't scream. The second she was free, she babbled, huddling into his uniform, "Vuole mangiare me."

Looking thoroughly bewildered, America asked what she'd just said.

With a similarly bemused expression, Italy replied, "She says you want to eat her."

"Oh… is that all?"

"All? America, that's a lot. I can get you a hamburger later, but don't you think cannibalism is a little-" The American nation rocked on his butt.

"Eat her? What? I tried to undo her gag with my mouth." Another brilliant idea that could not possibly misconstrued by a terrified young girl. "Tell her I don't want to eat her." America wiggled his bound hands. "And then do me."

Italy nodded, hiding a smile as he did. " Non vuole mangiare voi."

Continuing in Italian, the women replied, her voice raspy from lack of use, "But he always looks so hungry." Wide eyed, America continued to watch the exchange without comprehending.

"That's because he's always hungry."

"For women?"

Solemnly, Italy replied, "For burgers." The woman snorted. A measuring look was directed at the blond nation, who looked to be the very picture of innocence.

"How is he not fat?"

The Italian nation openly grinned at this, though he knew he was starting to take too much time. "Oh, give him a century or so and-"Her bemused expression alerted him to the mistake he'd made. Without meaning to, he switched to English. "I mean, not a hundred years. There's no way he'd still be alive a hundred from now, unless he was the representation of the nation or something, right? But he's totally not that so…" A furious blush heated up his cheeks, especially after France and America started laughing, and England began teasing him about his inexperience with girls.

It wasn't his fault. He represented young soldiers, not flirts. And guys who date unicorns and fairies should so not talk.

The noise attracted the German soldiers, so Italy quickly snarled, "Shut up and get out." Taking out his knife, he cut the binds around America's arms, then he unlocked the cell France and England were trapped together in. The girl crawled out of her cell, looking up at him with hope.

There were two ways Italy could get her out of that camp. If he left her there, she be forced on other prisoners or given to soldiers, so leaving her was not an option. First, he could fight his way out, depending on their immortal bodies to keep them safe from the bullets that would inevitably come their way, but that would leave her vulnerable. The chances of getting her out alive were to slim to use that plan as anything other than a last resort. Second, he could talk his way out.

When Italy exited the prison, the guards immediately questioned him as to why he had four prisoners instead of three. "She is for me." The Italian bluntly explained.

"That's not how it works here, Sir."

"Ve~ But you have so many" the words made him sick, "surely you can spare one. After all, this will give you one less mouth to feed."

The girl was very beautiful, but the thought of an extra mouthful was as tempting, if not more, than the sight of her flesh.

In the end, all four of them were able to walk out unscathed, and Italy didn't get to stab anyone.


	4. Via Rasella

It's been almost two years since Chibi has felt well enough to walk outside of Austria's house unaided. Usually, she's hauled up in Italy's old bed, a fever rendering her unable to move, let alone laugh or smile. She could feel the Occupation inside her, roiling in her stomach. It made it hard to eat, so she was always hungry. The warmth refused to stay in her body with it, so she was always cold, even though her forehead could turn water to steam.

Hungary did her best to wash her and bathe her every day, but the young girl still showed no signs of improving.

* * *

Someone in Central Rome contacted Carlino by telegram, letting him in on some juicy information about a planned attack on the S.S. Police. The boy, still rash and passionate, wanted in on the plot, but Feliciano, who now liked to go by the name, Luciano, was against it.

He'd been in the middle of loading up a truck, while wearing the dirty civilian clothes he'd bartered for, when his little brother, limbs still too long for his body, loped up to rope him into joining the plot.

A tanned hand came up, swept his chestnut hair back from his stinging eyes, and came back wet from the salt and water streaming from his pores. He groaned disdainfully after a quick sniff revealed just how bad he smelled, before turning his full attention on his brother.

To Seborga, it was like being suddenly placed under a spotlight and being asked to sing a song he didn't know the words to.

"No. You're not joining" The Italian nation firmly said, "and neither am I." Suspicion bloomed once again in his brother's verdant eyes, but Luciano paid it no heed, continuing, "What we do could get us killed, but what you want to do will kill others. Do you understand what that means?" Using a national name around humans was dangerous, but it was the only way Luciano felt that he could convince his brother that he was serious about his refusal.

Seborga blinked, surprised that his former Fascist brother cared at all about taking lives. "I know what it means. I don't like taking lives either but-"

Luciano shooked his head, spraying the ground with his sweat as he did so, "No, you don't get it. For every one German life we take, they will take twenty more. Isn't what we're doing- helping people – enough? Even if everything goes as planned and all of you manage to plant the bomb without being caught, what about bystanders? Can you handle the guilt of taking an innocent life?"

"That won't happen."

"It could."

"It won't!" Panting heavily, Seborga turned his back on Italy, shouting with his disappointment and frustration painting each word, "If you're too scared to help me, you should have just said so."

"Seborga" Luciano softly pleaded. "Don't do this. You can't die, but this could kill you. Just this once, let the humans fight for themselves." Seborga's back moved farther away, so Luciano grabbed his arm, cursing himself and his poor persuasion skills as he did so. "Wait, I'll go." His brother's eyes lit up. "As long as you stay here." Immediately, the boy opened his mouth to protest, but he was cut off as Luciano quickly added, "This camp needs you here. The children look up to you, and the women feel safe when you're around. It's already been a year, but they don't trust me yet. That's why, you need to stay here and keep them safe."

After he finished packing the truck and camouflaging it, Luciano caught the earliest train to Rome.

* * *

The seats on the train were about as comfortable as a bed covered in thumbtacks. A sniff of the seat Luciano was currently sitting in, and the seat he would be sitting in for the next four hours, revealed the pungent smell of mold. It settled in his nostrils and wouldn't come out no matter how hard he tried to sneeze.

The AC kicked on while he was still wet with sweat, transforming him into a sweaty, shivery mess for a good duration of the trip, sweet relief only coming to him when he got off the train to find that Rome was just as swelteringly warm as Milan and Bologna.

The station, with its gum covered columns and crowds a people, was certainly an appropriate meeting place. Apparently, the attack was set to be on the German 11th Company, 3rd Battalion, SS Police Regiment Bozen in Via Rasella. The regiment consisted of Italian traitors who switched sides after the armistice. Apparently, they thought switching sides would better protect their lives. The Italian partisans wanted to prove them wrong.

A familiar voice startled Luciano out of his thoughts, "Do you think we should do the signal here, Luciano?" Spinning on his heel, Italy turned around to find the very brother he'd told to stay put standing right behind him, and wearing a rather smug expression. How could he be so sweet to Wy and Sealand, yet so annoying and obstinate to his own brother?

The regiment would march on a prescribed route through the Piazza di Spagna and into the narrow street of Via Rasella. It was at the intersection of the piazza and the narrow street that the resistance planned to ambush the very force that was made for the sole purpose of intimidating them.

Carlino whistled twice, and one by one, many men, their ragged clothes hanging around their skins and bones, came to meet them. They continued walking through the streets as a large group so as not to attract suspicion.

One man with a small mustache began to offhandedly introduce the others to Luciano and his brother. He gestured to the three men beside him. "This is Aldo, Sergio, and Bruno."

"Ciao."

Pointing behind him, the man continued, "And this is Michele, Giorgio, Franco, Domenico, Mario, Pietro, Carlo, Salvatore, Giovanni, and Vincenzo."

The introduced men inclined their heads in Carlino and Luciano's direction.

"And I'm Angelo." Angelo was apparently the de facto leader of the fourteen-man resistance group, well, sixteen man now.

Luciano didn't want Carlino involved in the bombing, but, in human years at least, Carlino was an adult, and he couldn't be a child forever. If he had to grow up, let him at least know hate when someone who loved him was by his side.

They waited, quiet as the grave, for the regiment to come marching down the street in their damn, spotless uniforms, then, Luciano, dressed as a street cleaner, pushed a cart full of 18 kilograms of TNT and TNT filled iron tubing. He lit the fuse, and the world turned to fire.

Twenty-eight SS policemen died that day.

The resistance members blended in seamlessly with the crowd that gathered. It would only be a few hours before they learned a child, a boy, was killed in the explosion. And it would be a whole day before they wished they'd never even been born.

* * *

A/N: 335 Italian prisoners were executed in the Ardeatine caves as a reprisal for the bombing in Via Rasella. The German soldiers, many of whom had never killed before, were given bottles of cognac to drink in order to dull their senses. Those who refused to shoot were physically forced to and those who fainted were abruptly carried away so they could be replaced by their comrades. A Resistance priest, Don Pietro Pappagallo, blessed those about to die until he met their fate himself.


	5. Rescuing A Hero

Seborga's face is still round with youth as he sobs into his brother's chest. Italy strokes his brown hair softly, uttering assurances that thing will be all right, even though they both know that things never will be. Not really.

It'd be one thing if they could blame only the Germans, curse them, but it was their fault too. The massacre had happened because of what they'd done, just as Luciano had suspected. A reprisal against the Resistance, showing them just how much German lives were worth compared to theirs and how little any rebellion or dissent would be tolerated.

… Children had died in those caves. Women, too. Fathers, sons, mothers, all those lives extinguished for the lives of twenty-eight men who marched up and down the streets. Except, they all knew it wasn't really about the Italian SS policemen who had died. The German officers treated Italians like cannon fodder, anyway. It was the act, the show of defiance that was being punished. The Germans wanted the Italian Resistance to suffer until they shattered.

And as his brother shattered against him, Italy did his best to hold him together.

* * *

Once his brother was sleeping soundly, Luciano allowed himself a few hours to go on a walk into the nearest town. A crowd of people in the streets immediately drew his attention, but it was the scaffold with the noose tied around it that kept his attention. Standing at the center of the crowd, smack dab on the scaffold, his hands bound behind his back, was a grinning American with tawny hair and a stubborn cowlick sticking out of the top of his head.

When he saw Italy gawking in the crowd, he gave a cheerful wave.

"Hey, Italy" he said, then added, gesturing to the two German soldiers readying the noose. "Little help here?"

Luciano sighed. How many times could one nation get captured? Actually, France would probably know the answer to that question better than America would.

Thinking quickly, Italy decided on the best course of action, though he knew Alfred wouldn't like it. Still, it was better than exposing their immortality to the public.

Two knifes flew through the air, embedding themselves deep into the flesh and cartilage of the two soldiers trying to hang Italy's friend. They gurgled, choking on their own blood as their knees fell out from under them.

The screaming started when their bodies fell into the crowd.

Italy took advantage of the chaos to rescue Amercia. He plucked one of his knifes from the nearest near-dead soldier, ran up the scaffold, cut the noose, and then he released America's hands from their bindings. The ropes had been tied so tight Italy could see the raw, inflamed flesh around his wrists. It angered him for some reason.

America grimaced as he gingerly tried to restore the circulation to his hands. "Did you have to kill them?"

"There were no other options." Down on the ground a gasp and gag were the last they heard of the two soldiers.

"Sometimes, I think I liked you better when you were a scaredy cat."

Italy pondered this, and decided that he was not the Italy who had once been a scaredy cat, as America had so aptly put it. That Italy was currently in bed with a fever and had been for the past two years.

"America, we need to get out of here." Luciano gripped America's hand and pulled him off of the scaffold. He knew America liked to kill on a battlefield, the old fashioned sort of killing where you looked your opponent right in the eye, identified with him, and then shot him. But things weren't that simple anymore.

It used to be women and children weren't targets. Now everyone was a target and everywhere was a battlefield.

* * *

**A/N**: I should have just had this as a part of last chapter or something. Anyway, next chapter is the last one. I hope you liked this story. As for Carlino, you may have noticed he's a little less goofy than Hetalia portrays him. This is because he was originally meant to be the human version of Seborga, but I decided to scrap that idea and he became much more important to the plot as a result. I don't now when the next chapter will come out, but I know I want it to be perfect when it does, so that means no rushing

If you want more information about the massacres, look up Massacre of the Acqui Division and Ardeatine massacre. The purpose of this story was to get a feel for a 2P! character, but I also really wanted there to be fan fiction out there of an Italy who wasn't a Love Martyr (trope) for Germany, and I'm pretty sure I succeeded on that count.

Lastly, this may be obvious, but I'm a fan of Friendship! AmeIta. That's why America gets a pretty significant amount of screen time. Well, that, and I'm American^^


	6. The One Who Can't Be Saved

"We know where Mussolini is!" Carlino shouted as he burst into Luciano's tent. "He's in Dongo, Lombardia. Umberto found him trying to run to Switzerland, and Walter's sure its him!"

Luciano's face darkened to a frightening degree at the news. "Tell Lazzaro and Audisio" Italy could sense Walter Audisio's killing intent from miles away, "to wait until I get there. By car, it'll take me less than an hour to get to Lombardia. They just have to hold off on executing the bastard for that long."

"So you can kill him?"

Luciano gave his brother a 'well, duh' look. It was only all he'd been talking about for the past two years.

Ignoring the look and on the verge of tears, Carlino continued, "If you kill him, you'll disappear."

It wasn't like Luciano hadn't thought about that. Even though he had all of the real Feliciano's memories, he was really only two years old. He'd spent his whole life fighting against Fascist Italy, against himself, and now, he didn't even get to enjoy the peace he and his brothers, and his friends, had helped to bring about.

But they were wasting time. "I'm sorry, Seborga" His brother's eyes widened, tears streaming down his cheeks because he knew that he'd never be able to change Luciano's mind. The former Fascist nation stared down at the only one who'd acknowledged him as an existence separate Feliciano since the beginning, and smiled, fondly stroking his brother's hair before he burst out of the tent, running to catch the fastest train to Lombardia.

That was the last time he saw his little brother.

* * *

Benito Mussolini has a stern face with a soft chin. Italy realized how incredibly docile the he'd become as he approached Walter Audisio, the man who'd confirmed the Duce's identity and watched him as they waited the personification of Fascist Italy to arrive. Of course, Walter didn't now that, but he did know the boy in casual, worn clothes was supposed to be a very important and influential member of the Italian resistance.

More disconcerting than the boy's young age, were his eyes. There was an unnatural red tint in his eyes that Walter had learned to associate with bloodlust in Italian men. It was a rare sight, but as the tan boy before him proved, it existed.

Next to the bound Mussolini was his mistress, Clara Petacci. Her cropped, curly hair, fashionable in Italy, wasn't enough to make up for the bags under her sunken eyes. There was a dead look about her, suggesting she may have known what awaited her. Maybe she hadn't known when she fell in love with Benito, the great and powerful Duce, but she must have then.

When Luciano asked for Walter's gun, he protested, saying that killing the Duce would make him famous and kids had no use for guns. He knew he'd lose eventually, but he wanted the glory killing the Duce would bring too badly for him to give up the right immediately. After all, it was him who'd confirmed the identity of Mussolini, not the boy.

"If you want, you can kill the mistress" Clara started at this, her eyes darting back and forth between the two men discussing her death, resembling in all honesty a rabbit caught in a trap. "And then tell everyone you killed Mussolini. No one will no you didn't except me, and I won't be telling anyone anything about this encounter."

"You offer me the woman" Audisio replied. "Do you think me a savage, that I would take pleasure in extinguishing the life of a woman?"

"Then I will do both, and you will take the credit." The expression on the boy's- No, man's face suggested that he was completely serious. It was impossible to keep thinking of him as a boy after hearing him speak of murder with such a flat, earnest tone.

Finally, painfully, Walter handed over his pistol.

As a mercy to the women, Luciano shot her first. Then, as enraged as a man could be, Benito Mussolini ripped open his shirt, yelling, "Shoot me in the chest!"

Italy obliged. Twice.

Once the deed was done, Walter collected the bodies, loading them into a nearby truck bound for Milan. This left Luciano to his own devices.

It was a strange feeling, being without a boss, without a purpose. Fascist Italy no longer existed now that Benito Mussolini was dead. His hands tingled. The feeling traveled up his arms and down his legs until his knees shook and he found that he could no longer carry his own wait. The Duce's blood stained the ground where he fell.

Seborga would probably be all right without him, he thought to himself, and his sorella would finally be better. He'd really wanted to see her one last time, but this was all right. Well, it wasn't all right. But it was enough.

The tingling traveled over his chest until he felt as light as air. He didn't think he was breathing anymore, but that had ceased to matter sometime ago.

His pants collapsed to the ground as his legs disappeared, followed by his shirt. There was nothing left of him but his thoughts as the tingling reached his face. He wanted to speak, to say something before he was completely gone, to leave something of him in this world behind, but it was too late.

The tingling reached the top of his head, and then, under the great expanse of a blue sky, he didn't feel anything anymore.

* * *

North Italy woke up in his old bedroom at Hungary's house, with tears in his eyes for a brother he couldn't remember. A hand reached up to touch the wet droplets on his cheeks, and even as he tried to wipe them away, for some reason, they just kept falling.

**The End**


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